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Axl doesn’t usually go out the night before a gig. That’s one of those rules he’s made for himself lately; like no dairy on show days, or don’t trust Steven with money. He’d rather save his voice than gamble it on some piss-warm vodka in a club with a shit sound system. The guys always say that alcohol won’t fuck up his voice for fuck’s sake Axl don’t be so dramatic–
And maybe they are right, but it’s not about that; it’s about control. Which is why, perhaps, he was already pissed off when Izzy started acting like a jackass.
He’d been ping-ponging between idiot and ghost all night. Laughing too loud at nothing, interrupting everyone, groping tits and asses randomly like he forgot what human boundaries are. Izzy gets like this sometimes; sleep-deprived and wasted, pupils wide like a cartoon character in love. And the problem is… he’s scaring off the girls.
Axl told him to fuck off, fairly so. Didn’t even raise his voice, he’s saving that for the show tomorrow. He just leaned in, sneered it low like a secret, Get the fuck out of here, you’re ruining it for everyone.
Izzy stared at him, swaying slightly. He muttered something Axl couldn’t catch over the music, but ended up stumbling away. The blonde next to Axl said something about getting another drink. He nodded, not really listening. His eyes tracked Izzy as he weaved through the crowd, heading for the bathroom.
He felt the regret kick in about a minute later. That’s how it always is; act first, feel sorry after.
Dude’s been going on a three-day-coke binge. You’ve barely seen him blink.
He drains his drink, excuses himself with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and tells himself he’s just making sure Izzy isn’t choking on his own vomit. Can’t have his rhythm guitarist and childhood friend OD before tomorrow’s gig.
The bathroom reeks of piss and sweat. Axl wrinkles his nose.
“Izzy?”
A pause. Then, from the far stall, “Fuck off.”
brat
Axl moves down the row, checking under each door until he spots those familiar black shoes. He slaps the metal once, hard enough to make it rattle.
“Open the door.”
Another pause. Axl supposes that either Izzy’s considering it or he’s forgotten how doors work.
A sigh, then the lock slides. Axl pushes in before Izzy can change his mind, crowding into the tiny space. Izzy’s standing up, head tipped back against the wall, half-lidded and red-rimmed eyes. He closes the door behind Axl with his foot and locks it again.
“What the hell do you want?” Izzy asks hoarsely, squinting.
The stall isn’t big enough for two. Axl can smell the cigarettes on Izzy's breath. Their knees brush whenever either of them shifts.
“What are you doing here?”
Izzy frowns, like the question itself offends him. “You fuckin’ told me to go away. Now you’re confused I’m gone?” He huffs. “Listen, if you’re here to get your dick sucked you’re gonna be real disappointed–”
Axl claps a hand over his mouth. “Are you fuckin’ dumb?” he whispers, eyes darting toward the stall door. “Someone could hear you.”
Izzy slaps his hand away but doesn’t push it further. Even coked out of his skull, he should know Axl’s right about that.
“And no,” Axl states, “I ain’t here for that.”
Izzy raises his eyebrows, unimpressed. “What is it, then?”
“Just wanted to see what you were up to.”
That gets a dry, joyless laugh. “Why are you acting like you care? You were so fuckin' mean earlier.”
Axl swallows. That one hurts worse than it should. But Izzy’s not wrong; lately, Axl doesn’t care who’s using what, or how much, just as long they’re still breathing the next morning. He’s got enough on his plate. Girls, the setlist, the usual war in his own goddamn head.
“Can I fuck you?” He ends up asking softly. Not exactly tender, just cautious, afraid someone might hear outside.
“Here? Hell nah.” Izzy shakes his head.
Axl understands this is one of the least sexy places they’ve been together in. And they’ve fucked inside some pretty bad one’s. But he’s here, and he might as well get something out of it. “Blow me?”
“No.”
He leans against the wall, rolling his eyes. “You’re so fuckin’ difficult,” he breathes, disappointed.
“Let me fuck you instead,” Izzy offers.
Axl considers it, likes the idea. Except– “You're fuckin' stoned. You could not get it up right now if your life depended on it.”
Izzy sighs, dramatic as hell. “Then leave.”
“You’re pissing me off, Iz.”
“Oh wow. That never happens,” he shoots back, too evidently sarcastic for Axl’s liking.
Axl's expression shifts, the hard edges softening. Even when Izzy’s in the worst mood, he usually can get a handjob out of him, at the very least. “C’mon, baby. Don’t be like that.” His voice has that honeyed quality now, the one he usually saves for chicks to talk their way into their pants.
Izzy snorts, recognizing the act for what it is. “Now you're being nice? Damn, make up your mind.”
“I’m sorry. Maybe I was too harsh back there.”
“You always are.” Izzy eyes him. “What's gotten into you? Looking to get laid that bad?”
kinda
“Maybe I just missed you.” That isn’t exactly true, because Izzy was gone for barely two minutes, but it could be true!
Izzy scoffs — he doesn’t believe it — so Axl just gives up. He’s never been so easy to manipulate; Axl forgot. Izzy proceeds to reach into his jacket pocket and pull out a little baggie. He holds it between his thumb and index finger. Inside, Axl sees two pale blue pills.
“What’s that?”
“Just some Molly.”
Axl stares at the baggie. “Can I have one?”
Izzy snorts. “Yeah, sure.”
Axl understands the disbelief — he's never been into this stuff, picks at the guys for being junkies at every chance he gets — but doesn’t answer, just holds his hand out.
Izzy stares at him, eyebrows raised, waiting for the punchline. When it doesn’t come, he huffs, amused but not annoyed. “You serious?”
Axl shrugs. “Yeah, why not?”
Izzy laughs under his breath, then taps one of the pills into Axl’s palm. “Be my guest, then.”
Axl pops it without hesitation, dry swallow and everything. He grimaces like he just sucked on a battery. “It fuckin’ tastes like floor cleaner.”
“It ain’t candy, princess,” Izzy says, and takes his own.
Axl swallows a few times, trying to get rid of the taste. “Where’d you get these?”
“Does it matter?”
“How long does it take to kick in?” he asks, shaking his hand like he can flick the taste out of his mouth. “Ten minutes? Twenty?”
Izzy gives him a look. “Christ, you’re already annoying.”
Axl ignores that. “Am I gonna feel like shit tomorrow?”
“Yes. No. Depends.” Izzy leans his head back against the stall wall and closes his eyes. “Drink water. Don’t panic. Try not to cry. You’ll be fine.”
“Cry?”
Izzy peeks one eye open and smirks. “You’ll see.”
this motherfucker
That shuts Axl up for all of ten seconds. Then he speaks again, quieter this time, “‘S gonna mess with my voice?”
“Baby, you ain’t on tour. You’ll live.” Izzy pauses. “Stop stressin’. Just enjoy it, that’s the point.”
Axl stares at the graffiti on the metal stall wall like it’s offering him moral support. “You know I don’t like not being in control.”
“Then why the fuck are you in this band?”
That gets a smile out of Axl; tight-lipped, but real. “You’re such a dick.”
“Yeah, well.” Izzy shrugs. “You did come find me.”
He probably just means Axl came into the bathroom ; not that he crossed half the country, ended up in L.A., joined the same band, stayed close all these years.
But that’s what Axl thinks of first.
constantly overthinking
He tries to stay quiet after that.
He’s not even sure when it starts; he just notices that blinking feels nice. His mouth isn’t dry, exactly, but everything tastes sort of... electric. He swallows and presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, amused for no reason.
And he looks at Izzy. It’s not like he’s never noticed, of course. Izzy’s always been good-looking in that narrow, fuck-you sort of way, like a corpse who decided to join a rock band. But now…
now it’s just fucking ridiculous
The light’s bad, the stall’s disgusting, Izzy’s hair is greasy and he’s slouched like he couldn’t give less of a shit, but Axl can’t stop looking at him. His big nose suddenly looks very attractive. His lips look too soft. Even the crooked piercing on his nose Axl had always considered stupid looks cool.
Axl shifts his weight and breathes through his nose, slow. It’s not just a horny feeling, not like wanting to get off. Every limb feels warmer. Something’s blooming behind his ribs, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.
He clears his throat. “You always look like that?”
Izzy’s brows pull together. “Like what?”
Axl gestures vaguely. “Like a painting. Or a fuckin’ hallucination.”
Izzy stares at him. “You high already?”
Axl shrugs, looks down, suddenly fascinated by the way the metal of Izzy’s zipper catches the light. “I dunno. You look real good though.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Very fuckable.”
Izzy smirks. “That’s very flattering.”
Axl’s still leaning against the wall, letting the weird little buzz crawl its way through his chest and out to his fingers. He keeps glancing at Izzy, and every time he does, it’s like something flutters; like the sight of him is some kind of trigger.
“Iz,” he says, a little breathless. “Do you ever think about how weird it is that we’re, like… here?”
“Here where.” Izzy asks nonchalantly.
Axl waves at the stall, the venue, the city, the planet. “Just, here. Like, you and me. We’ve known each other since we were kids, and now we’re in fuckin’ Guns N’ Roses. Isn’t that fucked?”
Izzy just watches him for a second. Then: “Yeah. You’re high.”
Axl laughs. He’s quite embarrassed because he sounds really silly right now, but he can’t help it. “I mean, yeah. But I’m also right .”
Izzy exhales through his nose, smiles teasingly. “Ax, seriously, how long’s it been? Twenty minutes? You’re already in the ‘everything means something’ stage.”
“Everything does mean something.”
Izzy rolls his eyes, but smiles warmly.
Axl got a little too hot, so he already took his jacket off. He’s probably been staring at Izzy for a while. He’s chewing at his thumbnail absently, all jittery limbs and blank-eyed calm. He seems only halfway there.
Axl feels like he’s all the way there. He’s breathing a little harder now. Not because he’s turned on; well, not just that. It’s everything. Izzy’s voice sounds better than usual. His skin looks good, and Axl really wants to touch it. He wants to crawl inside his ribcage and sit there forever.
live inside him
He’s not sure when he moves. One moment he’s looking, and the next he’s kissing him; just like that. Just leans in, palms warm and shaky as they catch the sides of Izzy’s face, and kisses him.
It’s not desperate, surprisingly. His mind is moving too slowly right now to be anything but soft and gentle. Whether Izzy kiss or doesn’t kiss back, Axl doesn’t really know. All he knows is his tongue is deep inside his mouth, and that’s enough. Izzy’s hands languidly settle on his waist. Axl can feel the heat of them through his shirt, thumbs dipping under the hem. It’s grounding, sort of. Comforting, like it has always been.
Axl pulls back enough to whisper, “You’re so fucking pretty.”
“Fuck, are you– are you gonna cry?”
That’s when Axl realizes he’s not talking; he’s straight up whining. Looking back, he can hear the high-pitched tone in his voice. He decides to stop talking before he makes more of an ass of himself. He leans in, mouth dragging along the sharp edge of Izzy’s jaw, sucking slowly, wanting to leave a mark. He doesn’t even remember putting his hands on Izzy’s shoulders, but they’re there. Fingers curled around the bony limbs and the leather. He lets one slide down, chest to stomach, until his palm lands between Izzy’s legs.
Nothing.
No reaction. Not even a twitch. All he hears is Izzy sighing harshly.
Axl pulls back, just a little, enough to glare at him in the dim light. “You’re not even hard.”
Izzy grins, unbothered. “I know,” he says warmly, eyes a little glassy. “You said it yourself, can’t get it up on this shit.”
Axl frowns. “Well, I am hard.”
He doesn’t mean to sound petty about it, but it slips out that way. He feels dumb immediately. Like he’s bragging. Like it’s supposed to prove something.
Izzy smiles in warm surprise, showing he hadn’t noticed until now. He rocks his hips forward slightly, enough to press the heel of his hand against Axl’s crotch. “Shit,” he mutters. “You really are.”
Axl doesn’t want to say anything. He’s still half caught on the idea that maybe the Molly isn’t the issue. Maybe Izzy just doesn’t want him. Was this one of those affection highs? Kissing out of impulse and heat and nothing else? It’s not rare for Izzy to do that when he’s around groupies. Is this a drugged-up reflex?
He wants to ask, but the words feel too desperate, too revealing. Instead, he just stares at him.
Izzy’s thumb curiously traces the shape of him through his pants. “Guess we know who’s the lightweight,” he says with a crooked smirk. It’s teasing, sure. But it’s not mean, not distant.
Axl bites his lip, trying not to let the mixture of ego, lust, and vulnerability curdle too much. “Fuck you.”
“You’re the one who kissed me,” Izzy points out, hand still there, not moving much. “Don’t get all shy now.”
Axl’s breathing is already hitching, pupils wide. Everything feels like it’s humming; his skin, his throat, the shitty stall walls around them.
“Want me to suck you off?” Izzy asks quietly, right next to his ear. It’s not very romantic or intimate, but rather casual, like it’s not a big deal.
Even so, Axl finds himself shuddering at his voice. He swallows. Nods too fast. “Fuck, yeah. Yeah, fuckin’– yeah.”
His hands fumble at his zipper, clumsy all of a sudden. His fingers don’t seem to work right, like they’re underwater or made of rubber. Izzy watches him with a half-smile as he bites his lip, and leans in to help. Axl gets his fly open with a frustrated little curse and pushes his jeans down just enough, underwear dragged with them. He’s hard enough it hurts, leaking and twitchy against the cool air. Izzy exhales through his nose, and Axl swears he feels the breath on him before he even moves.
Izzy drops to his knees like he’s done a thousand times before. The stall’s gross and narrow but he doesn't seem to give a shit; knees planted to the filthy tile, one hand bracing against Axl’s hip, the other wrapping firm around the base of his dick.
“Fuck,” Axl breathes, already dizzy from the contact. From the contact, sure.
Izzy doesn’t start with his mouth right away. Just holds him there, thumb sliding along the underside like he’s testing pressure, drawing a sharp gasp out of Axl’s throat. He probably keeps forgetting how sensitive he is, how everything feels ten times heavier and louder on this stuff. Even the slight graze of a nail near the head makes his knees shake.
“God, you fuckin’– do it already,” Axl mutters, voice wrecked and breathless.
Izzy chuckles once, quiet and smug, the bastard. Of course, he needs to be a smartass and ruin the moment for Axl, reminding him they are still in a public place (which Axl had very gladly forgotten), so he whispers, Be as quiet as you can, Ax.
And then a warm, wet heat envelopes Axl so fast it knocks the breath out of his lungs. Biting down a whimper, his hand shoots to the wall, palm smacking flat against the stall as his spine bows. It’s too much, almost. Tongue slick and slow, lips tight, taking him in nice and deep.
Axl moans before he can stop it. Loudly. He squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip until he’s tasting something metallic; he’s sure it must hurt, but he feels no pain. His hips jerk forward instinctively and Izzy lets him. He gags a little, but there’s no complaints.
Axl grunts quietly, hand now tangled in Izzy’s hair, holding for balance. His heart’s pounding out of rhythm. His skin’s buzzing. His mouth is dry and numb but his eyes are watering and somewhere in the back of his mind he thinks I might die of a heart attack in a bathroom stall and that would be okay.
Izzy pulls off, breath damp against the head of his cock. “You good?”
Axl nods like a madman. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”
Izzy smirks, and sinks back down with a purpose this time; less teasing, more rhythm. His mouth works hot and slow, tongue slick under the head, then dragging down the shaft. He bobs once, twice, takes Axl deeper, and Axl groans, long and low, his spine twitching against the stall wall. He braces himself, one hand in Izzy’s hair, the other flat against the stall wall, legs wide, thighs tensed.
Izzy hums around him, tongue flicking under the head, and Axl swears, hips twitching. Then, suddenly, Izzy pulls off.
Before Axl can protest or ask what the fuck, Izzy’s standing again, crowding him up against the wall. His voice drops low, dark and easy: “Turn around.”
Axl’s already doing it before his brain catches up. Turns, plants his forearms against the metal stall wall, spreads his legs like it’s routine. It is, sort of. They've done this before. Izzy knows how he likes it. Knows what he can take.
“Gonna finger you,” Izzy says casually. His hand stays on Axl’s cock, loose but steady, stroking like he's got all the time in the world. The other hand grips Axl’s waist
A moment later, Axl hears wet noises — rapid, messy — and then feels it: one slick finger pushing in, easy, like slipping into warm water. His body swallows it up easily.
He exhales hard, eyelashes fluttering.
Izzy leans in, voice against his neck. “Good?”
“Yeah,” Axl breathes.
The finger curls a little, testing. Axl arches back into it without thinking.
The second finger slides in and Axl’s breath catches in his throat. He’s a little desperate by now. He bites down on a groan, but doesn’t try too hard to stay quiet anymore. The stall’s disgusting, and his knees are shaking, and he doesn’t give a single fuck. He just wants more.
Izzy starts moving them in tandem; slow, deep strokes, fingers curling just right while his other hand jerks Axl off in time. It's filthy and lazy and perfect.
The third finger pushes in, stretching him open wide, and Axl lets out a noise that’s almost a sob. Everything’s spinning and unreal, and all Axl wants is to be full. Used.
When fingering him, two or three fingers are usually enough; always have been. But right now, with the Molly buzzing through his veins and his cock aching and the heat of Izzy’s hand jerking him off torturously slow… he can take four. Hell, if there was enough lube and more time and more space, he’d let Izzy fist him.
“Fuck,” he says, voice cracking. “More, more.”
“You’ll take four?” Izzy asks teasingly.
Axl nods, pressing his cheek to the wall, barely able to speak. “Yes, fuck. Please.”
Izzy withdraws his fingers and Axl hears him gargle filthy, and then spit. He quickly shoves four fingers in. Moving thin yet long, brutal fingers just the way Axl likes, punching into him just right. There’s no finesse left, no gentle rhythm. Rough, rhythmic thrusts that scrape at that spot inside that makes his knees buckle.
And Izzy keeps jerking him off at the same time like it’s second nature. Hand wrapped tight around his cock, stroking in time with every push in. Axl’s head lolls forward, forehead pressing against the cold metal wall. Izzy leans in again, mouth at his neck; hot kisses, damp and hungry. Axl shudders when teeth graze skin.
He lets himself go. Moans without shame. Slutty and sweet, pitched so high it sounds girlish. His voice breaks in little gasps and whines as Izzy’s fingers drive in hard. Doesn’t even try to stifle it. His logic is, they’re in a stall. Cramped, disgusting, and echoey. If someone hears they’ll just think some groupie’s getting fingered stupid. Or fucked senseless. Either way, no one’s thinking Izzy Stradlin has Axl Rose bent over, whining and whimpering like this.
He’s gone, floaty, weightless, hips rocking back for more, chasing every thrust like a dog in heat. Every nerve ending is lit up and screaming. There’s no more logic, no more performance. He’s seconds away from coming all over himself like some desperate bitch in a porno when Izzy says something behind him — low and seductive, something like “You close?” — but Axl can’t answer, so he just nods frantically, eyes squeezed shut.
True to his word, he cums. It hits like a shot to the spine, violent and hot, his whole body convulsing. He cries out shamelessly as his cock jerks in Izzy’s hand, painting the stall wall with ropes of cum. He keeps moaning as Izzy fucks him through it mercilessly, not slowing down one bit. His vision whites out for a while. For so long he almost scares himself thinking he’s gone blind. There’s only heat and sound and the slick drag of fingers inside him, the pulse in his ears louder than anything.
By the time it ebbs, his legs are jelly. He’s boneless against the wall, chest heaving, sweat clinging to his skin. Izzy’s still behind him, hand finally slowing down.
Axl giggles breathlessly. He doesn’t even know why.
Izzy’s fingers finally slide out with a slick sound that makes Axl shiver. He’s still catching his breath, forehead pressed to the stall wall, when Izzy leans in close, lips brushing his ear.
“Ax?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m hard.”
Axl’s smiles lazily. His throat’s still raw from all that moaning, but he manages to croak out, “Just gimme a minute…”
A moment later he turns around, still shaky on his feet, and sinks down to his knees, ready to return the favor.